


things we lost in the fire

by sevensevan



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensevan/pseuds/sevensevan
Summary: Five times Daisy and Jemma lost each other.





	things we lost in the fire

**Author's Note:**

> clearly i picked a light note to come back on. i didn’t watch most of season five, so the parts of this fic that deal with that part of the canon are likely not even a little bit compatible. also i work a little bit with some of my personal headcanons for daisy’s powers, but it should be fairly self-explanatory. enjoy.

**one.**

Skye knew something was wrong. From the very beginning, the whole thing didn’t sit right with her: the bodies floating in the air, the way the hair on the back of her neck stood up at each and every—crime scene? Can it be called a crime scene when the dead are victims of an illness? An illness from another world, one that leaves holes in its victims’ foreheads and their bodies floating above the ground, ominous and still; the scenes felt like crime scenes. It probably didn’t sit right with any of them, really, but Coulson, May, Ward, even Fitz and Simmons didn’t seem nearly as disturbed as Skye felt.

Now, though. Now, Skye’s unease has turned to unshakeable fear, and the anxious sensation in the pit of her stomach is reflected on every single one of her teammates’ faces.

Skye can’t sit outside the lab and wait the way Fitz is. He’s trying to help, she knows that, but it feels too much like sitting and waiting for Simmons to die. And Skye can’t do that, can’t even confront the thought of it. At some point along the way since Skye left L.A. on a S.H.I.E.L.D. jet, Simmons has become… _important_ to her, though important doesn’t feel like a big enough word. They’re all important to her, everyone on the team, but Simmons is something _more_ , something that makes Skye’s hands shake when she thinks about it too much.

And now Simmons is trapped in the lab, waiting for the electricity in her body to explode out and kill her, kill everyone on the plane.

Skye hears footsteps approaching, and her head jerks up, waiting for May’s reassuring monotone to tell her that Simmons is fine, that everything is going to be okay. Instead, Coulson walks into the room, his face grim.

“She jumped,” he says tersely, and Skye’s heart stops in her chest.

 

**two.**

“You really meant it, huh?” Skye asks, leaning against the doorframe of Jemma’s room. Jemma looks up from where she’s packing the last of her clothes into a suitcase, meeting Skye’s eyes unflinchingly. The light in the base is always dim and unflattering as a result of the complete lack of natural light. In it, Jemma looks pale and wan, her face thinner than usual. That may not be an illusion, though; there’s plenty of food, but none of them have had particularly strong appetites since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. That’s what happens when you lose your purpose in life to a Nazi fringe science group, Skye supposes.

“I did,” Jemma says firmly, clutching the strap of her duffel bag with thin, wiry fingers. Skye straightens up off the doorframe. “I have to do this.”

“I understand,” Skye says, and though the words ring hollow in the air, she means them. She’s certain that if she had a family outside of S.H.I.E.L.D., she would want to see them right now. Besides, it will be good for Jemma to be away from Fitz, from the uncertainty of his slow, stumbling recovery. “Any idea when you’ll be back?” Jemma’s expression flickers.

“I—I’m not sure I’m coming back, Skye,” she says softly, with as much kindness as Skye has ever heard in her voice. Skye’s mouth goes dry. She licks her lips nervously, letting out a shaky breath.

“What?” she asks after a moment. Jemma bites her lip, pain flashing across her face.

“I just—I don’t—“ she sighs, shaking her head and looking down at the suitcase on her bed. Suddenly she looks old, tired, her shoulders sagging and her hand loosening on the strap of her bag. “I can’t do this,” she says after a moment, looking back up at Skye. “I can’t—be here, after everything.”

“But you—“ Skye digs her fingernails into her palm until it hurts. “We need you.” _I need you_. “You—you’re the strongest person I know.”

“I can’t be anymore,” Jemma says. “I can’t be _here_ anymore, not the way things are now. Please understand, Skye. I have to leave.” Skye can feel blood start to well up around her nails.

“I understand,” she says, and the words taste like ash. But Jemma relaxes, even smiles a bit in relief, and Skye forces herself to smile back as blood begins to seep under her nails.

“Thank you,” Jemma says, and even under the electric lights of the basement, her face washed clean of makeup, in a baggy sweatshirt with the elbows worn thin, she’s the most beautiful person Skye has ever seen. Jemma gathers up her things and walks towards the door. She hesitates beside Skye, looking over at her with wide, tired eyes. Skye can’t look at her.

Jemma leans in and presses a kiss to Skye’s cheek, her hair brushing against Skye’s shoulder and neck. Skye closes her eyes tightly, savoring the feeling of Jemma’s lips against her skin. Then Jemma pulls away and steps past Skye, hurrying out into the hallway, and Skye sags against the doorframe, feeling like all of the strings holding her up have just been cut.

Skye listens to Jemma’s footsteps move down the hall, the suitcase rolling and clicking, as she opens her hand and blood begins to trace the lines of her palm.

 

**three.**

Daisy drags her cursor back, pulling the video back to the start again. She releases it, and the video plays; soundless, grainy. Daisy lets it play for around thirty seconds before grabbing her mouse and pulling it back again, to the same spot.

On Daisy’s laptop screen, for the hundredth time tonight, Jemma gets sucked into the monolith.

 

**four.**

Daisy keeps her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone, just for a few days. She breaks the tracking program on it easily, makes herself entirely untraceable, invisible, but not unreachable. She still gets every call, every text, every voicemail message.

At first, there’s confusion. Coulson texts her asking where she’s gone, not suspiciously or urgently, just vaguely concerned. When she doesn’t respond, May texts her as well. By the time she’s been gone two days, the messages are flooding in from both of them.

And then Jemma’s name appears as well.

_Sent 12:17 PM: Where are you?_

_Sent 2:56 PM: Daisy?_

_Sent 8:33 PM: Please answer me_

_Sent 12:41 AM: Daisy please_

They go on like that, every few hours. Messages begging Daisy to respond, to acknowledge her, to do _anything_. Daisy reads them and doesn’t respond.

Then Jemma starts calling. Daisy’s phone is off most of the time, off and sitting in the backseat of the van she had stolen from a parking lot a day after running away from S.H.I.E.L.D., so she never gets the calls in time to pick up. Not that she would pick up anyway.

Jemma leaves voicemails, each more urgent and emotional than the last, the tinge of desperation in her voice swelling into a tidal wave. Daisy listens to them once and deletes them, knowing that, if she keeps them, she’ll never stop listening.

“Daisy,” Jemma’s voice says from Daisy’s phone on the fourth day after Daisy’s flight. Jemma sounds different; tired, empty, more exhausted than anxious. Daisy grips the phone a bit tighter in her hand, using the object as a barrier to keep her fingernails out of her palm. “I would ask you to call me back, but it’s pretty clear that you’re not going to do that. I thought—“ Jemma sighs, and Daisy’s phone plays the sound as a rush of recorded static. “Well, I don’t know what I thought. I suppose I thought I mattered to you. I thought we were—“ Jemma doesn’t finish the sentence, and what a fitting metaphor for their relationship, Daisy thinks. Neither of them can bear to say anything out loud. “You know,” Jemma says quietly on the other end, and it’s as close as either of them have ever come to speaking it, to admitting to whatever is between them, whatever has always been between them.

It’s never been unrequited. Daisy has always known that. They’re both aware of the inexplicability of their…it feels insufficient to call it a friendship, but that’s all they’ve ever called it. But to hear Jemma almost put words to it is another thing entirely from their usual silent understanding.

“I hope you figure it out, Daisy,” Jemma says softly. “I’m not going to call you again, but I hope you find whatever you’re out there looking for. If it’s forgiveness, you already have it. I—“ The phone beeps.

“ _End of message_ ,” the automated voice informs Daisy. “ _To delete, press one_.” Daisy pulls the phone away from her ear, pressing one while she still has the strength to.

Daisy quakes the phone apart and leaves it in a gas station trash can in rural Nevada, but she can’t quite leave the hurricane in her chest behind.

 

**five.**

Jemma finds her after the wedding.

“Shouldn’t you be with your husband?” Daisy asks, the words more bitter than she intends them to be.

“Don’t do that,” Jemma snaps. “Don’t…make me feel bad about this.” Daisy looks away.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Sorry, I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to.” Jemma sighs and sits down next to Daisy. Daisy keeps her gaze fixed on her hands where they rest, palms up, in her lap.

“You understand,” Jemma says. “Right?”

“I understand,” Daisy says. “He asked you. I’ve never…” She trails off, but they both know what she means.

“Can I tell you a secret, though?” Jemma says. “I rather wish you had.” Daisy clenches her hands into fists and doesn’t look up at Jemma.

Jemma turns, facing Daisy, and slips a fingertip under her chin. Daisy doesn’t fight the motion, doesn’t fight it when Jemma turns Daisy’s face towards her, doesn’t fight it when Jemma kisses her, chaste and gentle, barely there at all.

Neither of them speak when Jemma pulls away. Daisy barely even opens her eyes, trying to hold onto the moment for a bit longer.

“I’ll see you around, Daisy,” Jemma says quietly, and it sounds an awful lot like a goodbye. Daisy’s eyes drift open as Jemma stands up and walks away, leaving Daisy sitting alone, her hands shaking.

 

**one.**

Daisy wakes up knowing something is wrong. She can feel it; she can’t tell what’s happening, but something is tugging on her senses, her awareness of the vibrations of the world. Something has shifted, or perhaps is about to shift.

The hallways are empty, eerily so. Nothing seems amiss, but the feeling is growing stronger. Daisy strains her senses, but she can’t pick up on anything different.

Daisy turns a corner into the hallway by the lab. She sees Jemma through the glass doors, and steps inside. Jemma turns away from whatever she’s working on, looking at Daisy and frowning. The odd sensation is intense now, howling through Daisy’s senses like a siren. Daisy’s heart begins to speed up.

_Something is seriously wrong_.

“Daisy,” Jemma says, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. Daisy’s eyes are drawn away from her face to Jemma’s hands, which are gone now, replaced by a cloud of dust. “What—“

She’s gone. Daisy stares as the dust settles to the floor, her senses going haywire now, the feeling of things disappearing swelling around her. The whole universe seems to be shifting gears, and suddenly everything feels vaster somehow, emptier.

Daisy takes a step back, stumbling into a stool by a lab bench. She sits down hard, squeezing her eyes shut and reaching out with her senses, feeling for something, anything. She searches for the familiar vibrations of footsteps, of people shifting in their sleep, of _breathing_.

There’s nothing. The base is empty, so much quieter than it should be, and Daisy is left alone with a pile of dust on the laboratory floor.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it! i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake, and on twitter @thoughtsintoink. leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed.


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